


The Gift Of Life

by Frozen_grapes



Series: Gabriel grows up. Slightly. [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gabriel - Freeform, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Possessive Behavior, Sibling Incest, Time Travel, perspective changes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 13:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2311820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frozen_grapes/pseuds/Frozen_grapes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabriel has a brilliant plan, Sam flips out, and Dean winds up pregnant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift Of Life

**Author's Note:**

> Set directly after the events of "Mystery Spot" and turning into pre-canon. My brain, guys, IDEK.

So, ok, maybe he owes the kid. A little. 

Gabriel watches the compulsive way Sam keeps touching Dean. A hand on his lower back, lightly rubbing up and down, grasping Dean’s arm to steer him in the direction he wants him to go, hovering so close their shoulders and hips touch when Dean shifts to place his duffel in the trunk. And then there’s the whole Dean having to grip Sam by the wrist and haul him into the Impala through the drivers side door because Sam starts to have a panic attack at the thought of separating himself from Dean’s side for the five seconds it would take to round the car and climb in. 

Geez. Make a guy watch his brother die in creative ways over a hundred times and then make him spend six months alone, and, what? He’s broken? 

Humans are so delicate. 

Still, it pings something deep inside of him, this co-dependent bond the two brothers share. And as much as he _claims_ to want the apocalypse to just happen already, it... They don’t know about that junk yet. They just love each other, too much to want to see the other hurt, or to imagine life without their brother bitching and fighting by their side. They have a tangible need for each other, one they either can’t or won’t recognize, and it is alternately detrimental to their health and the best thing to ever happen to them.

His internal use of pronouns is overwhelming. Gabriel snaps himself to Ireland and buries himself behind a large, bitter Guinness to recover. 

Fuck it all, he gets their desperation. He does. He had to completely reinvent himself from the Messenger Of God to Trickster Extraordinaire in order to handle cutting himself off from his angelic family. Centuries later and the thought of Lucifer stuck in a cage in Hell and Michael brooding in Heaven still make him ache in ways he refuses to acknowledge. And what about Raphael? 

So, yeah, he understands the Winchesters. And he maybe-kinda-sorta owes Sam one for the emotional torture. Plus, he likes Dean and he likes messing with Fate, that prissy bitch. 

Round about the time he downs his twenty-fifth Guinness to the raucous cheers of his bar mates, Gabriel finalizes his plan to either help the Winchester brothers or break them completely.

~*~*~

Sam gets the phone call on a sunny Friday afternoon. He’s lounging under a tree, sleepy from an early morning lecture and the heat of the warm Summer day, waiting for Jess to be done with her afternoon class so they can grab some lunch together. Maybe today he’ll muster up the balls and agree to move in with her next semester.

He answers, “hello?” around a yawn, not bothering to check the screen to see who it is. Probably Brady, wanting to go out and grab a beer or three tonight, to celebrate completing the first week of summer term. 

“Sammy?”

And, yeah, it’s immature, but Sam sits bolt upright and pulls the phone away from his ear to stare at it in shock. No word over Christmas, his birthday, a solid fucking year of radio silence and then Dean decides to just randomly call him?

“Are you dying?” Sam can’t help asking as soon as he convinces his arm muscles to relax and brings the phone back to his ear. “Is Dad?” 

And if never fails to piss him off that in his family it’s a legitimate query.

“Naw, baby boy. Nothing like that.” Dean laughs, low and rough, and something clenches in Sam’s stomach. He suddenly wants to cry. Because this is his _life_ , his _brother_ , and fuck if he doesn’t miss him like breathing, like half of him is missing when Dean isn’t around. 

“I’m getting married,” Dean continues, sounding oddly shy and sweet and so completely unlike the cocksure version of his brother Sam has known and loved all his life that alarm bells start shifting in his brain.

“Wait,” Sam says. His mouth feels weird, like half of his throat has become paralyzed by Dean’s announcement. Things like swallowing the saliva and bile pooling in his throat, breathing, speaking coherently, suddenly seem impossible. “You’re what?”

And Dean just laughs again, the fucker, sounding young and delighted, and the alarm bells start pinging incessantly against the back of his eyes. “Getting married,” he repeats. “And you’ll like the guy, Sammy, you really will. Guess where we’re getting married at? Detroit! Where Chevys like Baby are made. Isn’t that awesome! Huh,” He says thoughtfully, “wonder if there’s a car museum or something. I think Gabe’ll like that.”

“The Chevy Museum is in Decatur, Illinois,” Sam answers automatically. Because, obviously, he wins at prioritizing information. “You’re marrying a _guy_?”

“I didn’t think you’d be like that, Sammy.” Dean sounds hurt, slightly sad. Dean doesn’t verbally project his emotions like this. Sam’s alarm bells slam against his optic nerves so hard he flinches. “Gabe’s a good guy,” Dean adds pleadingly, oblivious to Sam’s internal freakout. Which, again, completely out of character. Sam can swallow wrong when Dean is outside washing his freaking car and he’ll yell out an _Ok, Sammy?_ without missing a beat. 

“I’m not.” Sam takes a deep breath, holds it, takes another for further fortification. “I’m just, uh, surprised. How long have you, uh, known him? Gabe?”

“Three days,” Dean says, sounding so nauseatingly happy he’s practically cooing. Sam feels the muscle above his eye twitch painfully. “And the wedding is next week, which is why I’m calling you. I’d, uh,” he coughs, sounding shy and self-conscious, “it’d mean everything to me if you’d come to my wedding, Sammy.” 

“Next week?” Sam shouts, lowering his tone when a couple students across the quad look over at him. “Why so fast? You’ve known him for three days! Dean, this doesn’t feel right to me.”

Dean snorts. “I’m not surprised. You stopped caring about what made me happy the first time you ran away from me, Sammy.” He sounds surprisingly bitter about that, which, yeah, seems legitimately all Dean. Sam flinches but doesn’t get the chance to apologize or say anything. “And the wedding is next week because Gabe thinks if we do the ritual on the Solstice, when we have sex I’ll get pregnant.”

“Pregnant,” Sam repeats, unconsciously pulling his notebook and a pen from his bag to begin listing all known creatures with the power to impregnate. His pen hovers over the blank page and Sam feels nothing but panic. “And it doesn’t strike you as odd that it... that, _Gabe_ , can get you pregnant? Dean, man, come on. This screams supernatural intervention! What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I’ll be happy,” Dean says coldly. “I’m thinking someone will love me and won’t want to leave me, and will need me. OK? Fuck, I should have known you’d be like this. God forbid anyone but you try and make a life!”

That’s not fair. That’s _so_ not fair. Sam wants Dean to have a life, just one that revolves around him. 

Which, Sam blinks, wow. How selfish and messed up. What the fuck is wrong with him?

“What does Dad think about Gabe?”

“Dad doesn’t know.”

And that’s surprising enough that Sam forgets to breathe for a minute. “What? How can Dad not know?”

“Because Dad fucked off around the same time you did,” Dean says tightly. “I met Gabe after finishing up a hunt and --” Dean’s voice softens in a way it only ever usually does when he’s talking to Sam. It’s sickening how jealous it makes Sam feel. “-- we just clicked. And now we’re going to have a family, and, Sammy, I can’t do this without you. Please?”

It’s then, with his brother begging in his ear, that Jessica turns the corner and comes into view. She looks happy as she chats with one of her friends, her long blonde hair shining in the sunlight. She’s wearing a light pink sundress that shifts as she walks, jewelry sparkles at her ears and around her throat, and two books are clutched tightly under her left arm as she gestures with her right, laughing.

She’s perfect and shining and everything Sam wants. 

Sam is one-hundred percent positive he could love her for the rest of his life if he lets himself.

She doesn’t belong in his world. 

Sam’s known it all along, but he wanted it so much, wanted Jessica and her smiles and cookies and soft touches and perfumed skin, wanted normal. And it feels like Sam is on the cusp of something, that he can stay here and _have_ her, that going to Dean will be giving up the chance of something precious and pure and wonderful. 

It hurts to think of leaving, even for a little while, to not ask her about living together and starting a life with him. Hurts that she might meet somebody else, or get tired of his evasive answers about his past and break up with him. But this is Dean.

Nobody and nothing is more important to him than Dean. Not school, not normal, not even Jess as he’s just now realizing. Because Dean _is_ his world, never mind they haven’t spoken in a year. And something supernatural that thinks it can warp Dean’s mind and take Dean away from Sam, needs to die in a hideously painful way and Sam needs to be the one to stab it, shoot it, chop off it’s head, and then burn the entrails.

Or something. Whatever. 

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam says roughly, turning around before Jess sees him and walking toward his dorm. “I’m packing now. Just text me an address.”

~*~*~

Dean sleeps peacefully, sprawled out on his back on the cheap motel bed wearing nothing but a white t-shirt and a pair of black boxer briefs. One arm is flung above his head, his legs spread apart with his left foot on the floor, mouth open as he snores. He looks harmless and vulnerable and slightly endearing.

Gabe glares at him, sucking on a lollipop resentfully. 

He’s _tired_. Fucking Dean Winchester and his ability to try and fight off Gabe’s angel mojo. It took five mind warps before Dean would call his brother, and now he’s sleeping it off so Gabe doesn’t have to deal with him anymore today. 

And, ok, yeah, he doesn’t _sleep_ per se, but does Gabe get to rest? Oh, no. 

He _only_ broke the contract Lillith had on Dean’s soul, went back in time, found Dean, cloaked him so his miserable excuse for a father and that ballcap-wearing father figure couldn’t track him down and interrupt, and started fucking with the timeline. No biggie. 

And then, when he was so sure Sam would start bitching at Dean about not calling him unless he wants something, for being an idiot and getting tangled up in a supernatural romance, would call Bobby or Pastor Jim or Caleb or John Winchester or _somebody_ , what does the floppy haired asshole do? He writes his girlfriend an apologetic letter that a family emergency came up and he has to leave town for a while, steals a car, and starts driving. 

Gabe chose this weekend specifically for the fact that this is when Sam asked Jess to move in to her apartment in the original timeline. Sam spent the solstice adding protections to her apartment while she was at class, and by the end of summer was thinking of her apartment as their apartment and daydreaming about going ring shopping. Gabe never thought Sam would choose Dean and the supernatural world over Jess and their future potential family. 

So not only did his plan fail to damage the freaky Winchester bond, it may have actually strengthened it. He wonders if Sam even realizes how much his actions have just changed his life. 

As if on cue, Dean’s phone rings. Gabe answers with a cheerful, “Dean’s phone.”

Silence. “Who’s this?” Sam sounds wary and slightly angry. 

“This is Dean’s love slave,” he chirps, pulling the lollipop out of his mouth with a lewd popping noise. “Who’s this?”

“Sam,” he answers shortly. “Dean’s brother.” And, oh yeah, Gabe can’t help grinning at the bitchy possessiveness in the tone. 

“Sammy!” He cries, all feau cheerfulness. “Too bad it takes about 36 hours to get from your little college town to Detroit, buddy. We’re doing the final prep to make sure Dean-O gets knocked up on the first try on Sunday afternoon. I know he was hoping you’d be here by then.”

“Final...” Sam growls, literally fucking growls into the phone. Gabriel has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. “Don’t you touch him! I don’t know what you are or what you’ve done to my brother, but I will kill you. You hear me? I will _end_ you if you --”

“Yeah, yeah.” Gabe cuts him off with a dismissive scoffing noise. He can practically see Sam’s enraged face, and reminds himself that he’s supposed to be being nice to the kid. Or something. “Look, with that accident up ahead you probably won’t even make it here until Monday, and the solstice is Tuesday, so, I won’t lose sleep thinking of my imminent demise at your hands. Drive safe now, buckaroo!”

“What accident?” Gabe snaps his fingers and Sam starts swearing. There’s the sound of metal crunching and horns blaring and someone giving a short, panicked scream in the distance. “Holy!”

“Sounds nasty,” Gabe says sympathetically. “Better help out!”

“What did you do, you son of a --”

Yeah. That seems as good a time as any to hang up the phone.

~*~*~

“Dean wants to what now?”

Bobby sounds appropriately flustered and it reassures something inside of Sam. Because maybe, in the year since he stopped actively hunting all things dark and wrong, male pregnancy became a thing amongst hunters and he was blowing Dean’s new found desire to procreate out of proportion. 

“I’ve been trying to get a hold of that idjut for ‘bout a month now, damn it. Ain’t seen hide nor hair of him and your father, well.” Sam grunts in agreement and Bobby grunts back in perfect understanding. They don’t need words to discuss their mutual frustrations with John Winchester, though the rage burning inside of Sam at the thought of Dad leaving Dean to hunt alone... that’s going to take some time to simmer down. If ever. 

“I’m on my way to Detroit now,” Sam says tiredly. The accident could have set him back almost a day, but thankfully multiple idiots left their cars to gawk at the scene of the accident. Sam simply waited until he found one with four wheel drive, drove around the accident by half-riding the shoulder, half-riding the ditch, and powered on. He’s switched cars twice since then, and pats the dash of his Buick soothingly as the odometer inches past ninety. 

One does not simply drive into Detroit in a car that is not American made, after all. Car people have standards.

“I’ll dig through what I’ve got here,” Bobby says, “and maybe try and get a hold of Pastor Jim, but, son, I gotta tell ya.” His voice is hesitant and almost pitying. Sam grips the steering wheel tighter and increases his speed to one hundred and six. “It ain’t a demon, they can’t create life. So you’re looking at a fairy or a sprite or a vengeful somethin-or-other.”

“Yeah, I got that, Bobby,” Sam says tightly. “But I can’t let him. Dean can’t. If he.”

“I hear ya.” And the awesome thing about Bobby is he probably does. Sam doesn’t need to find a way to say that anyone who dares to impregnate his brother needs to die in agony. That Dean is _his_ and will always love him best, and anyone who comes between them should like the smell of their own blood because they will soon be choking on it.

And, wow, seriously. Sam never realized he was this blood thirsty. 

He’s kinda freaking himself out. Especially since if Jess told him tomorrow she was pregnant with another mans baby he would probably break things, like a glass or the dude’s nose, maybe a rib or two, but he wouldn’t be having such detailed homicidal fantasies. 

Yeah, best not to think on that too much. 

“I don’t want to,” he says hesitantly.

“I’ll call John when I call Jim,” Bobby says tiredly. There’s a faint shuffling sound in the background and Sam can just picture Bobby pulling off his ballcap and scratching at his head before putting his hat back on. The image makes him smile, make him homesick in a way he hasn’t been since the day he crawled out of the bed he shared with his brother and announced he was accepted to college. 

“Maybe after,” Sam says. 

“You’re damn right after,” Bobby says gruffly. “I’ll put clean sheets on the bed and everything for you, Princess.” 

He hangs up after that and Sam grins as he flips his phone shut and tosses it on the passenger seat. No wonder they’re all so bad at communicating in words when grunts, gestures, and half-coherent sentences seem to fill the void just fine. 

The ringing of the phone makes him look over, and he bites his lip when it’s Jess’ name on the display. Grimacing, he ignores the call and inches the Buick up to one-hundred and fifteen.

~*~*~

Sam is standing in the motel room when Gabe pops in to check on Dean. It’s just after eight on Sunday morning. There is no plausible explanation as to how in the hell Sam managed to defy time and physics and maybe gravity to make it here by now.

And, crap, could he have had worse timing? Dean’s always a little woozy when woken up from one of Gabe’s sleeping spells, and his joy at having his brother so close makes his soul shine and cling. Literally. How did Gabe ever miss the fact that Sam and Dean’s souls are mates and cling to the others’ with a fierceness that would make a starfish jealous. Dean looks dazed and rumpled, and is leaning against his brother, who is - seriously? Is this a Winchester thing? - nuzzling his neck and petting his hair and whispering that everything is going to be all right. 

The look on Sam’s face when he sees Gabe is actually mildly terrifying and makes Gabe want to address him as the Boy King. Sam looks like he hasn’t slept since Dean called him on Friday afternoon. His eyes are bloodshot and wild, his hair is a rat’s nest of tangles, and stubble is darkening his face to something demonic. Or maybe that’s the way he snarls and bares his teeth at Gabe. 

Or the way he pulls a gun from the back of his pants and shoots all eight clips into Gabe at point black range. 

“Gabe!” Dean attempts to shove away from his brother, but even with the crazy eyes and the gun in his hand, the arm around Dean clamps tighter and Dean is too disoriented to struggle properly. Still, he looks gratifyingly relieved when Gabe does nothing more than brush the bullets off his chest and smile.

“No worries, Dean-O,” he says cheerfully as he pops a tootsie roll in his mouth. “All quiet on the western front.”

Dean laughs and manages to extract himself from Sam this time, accepting the steaming pastry and coffee Gabe snaps into existence for him with a smile. And that at least lets Gabe get close enough to brush two fingers across Dean’s forehead. Except Gabe’s not the only one who watches Dean sway slightly, his bright green eyes going momentarily unfocused before focusing on Gabe with such sickeningly adoration even Gabe, with his sugar addiction, feels his stomach curl slightly. 

“Have a seat, Gabe,” Sam says through clenched teeth, gesturing to a chair placed precisely in the middle of a devil’s trap. Drawn out of the markers Gabe left behind yesterday when he got bored watching Dean sleep and decided to redecorate the walls. “Let’s chat. I’d like to get to know my brother’s future husband.”

And either Dean is used to the fact that his little brother is bat shit insane or Gabe whammied him a bit too hard, because he stops chewing to say, “Sammy,” in such a tender tone that Gabe wants to vomit. 

Sam clearly feels the same, if the look he shoots at Gabe then is any indication. It kinda reminds him of the look Sigyn would give him sometimes, when she was holding the basket over his head to catch the snake venom and he would say something to annoy her. Then her hand would accidentally slip and the venom would fall on his face until the villagers came to bring her flowers and sweets and beg deference from the earthquakes. 

Ah, memories. Maybe it is a family thing. 

“Sure thing, Kiddo.” Gabe strolls into the devil’s trap and sits down in the chair. He ignores the silver handcuffs Sam uses to attach his hands to the chair, as well as the rope dipped in holy water that goes around his torso and legs. Instead, he waits until Dean swallows the last bite of the pastry to sing out, “Eat that all up, sugarbean! I mixed the potion in the pastry to make it easier for you to digest!” 

Sam’s head snaps up, a choked protest making a sound like a tortured platypus in his throat, just in time to watch Dean suck down the last gulp of his coffee with a satisfied noise.

“You’re going to look so pretty when you’re pregnant,” Gabe says indulgently, just to hear Sam choke again. And, really, the kid is so easy to rile up it’s almost no fun to torture him anymore. “I’ll pamper you and bring you whatever you crave, and I’ll make sure you’re well taken care when we have sex.”

“If he’s pregnant, he might be too tired for sex,” Sam says aggressively. “Especially during the first trimester.” 

Little points of pressure are nudging against his back muscles. It feels amazing. Gabe turns his head just enough to see Sam trying to viciously and repeatedly stab him in the back with a silver knife with a serrated blade. “Let me tell you, whoever said Dean was the dysfunctional one, has never seen you with a sharp object in your hands.” It’s not as funny saying this to Sam this time, when he’s not already paranoid and half-broken, so Gabe decides to take this one step further. 

“Oh no,” Gabe says cheerfully, “Dean-O and I have to have sex at least once a week. Dean’s body will use the live sperm to keep the baby safe and healthy for the duration of the pregnancy, since he wasn’t naturally born with the organs necessary to ensure independent life.”

There’s no such thing as magical sperm. Gabe is totally talking out his ass. 

If Sam had slept at all within the past three days and was thinking rationally, he would know this and stop making those endearing little choking noises of fury. 

If Dean hadn’t spent the last week alternating between unconsciousness and being mind whammied after being jumped coming off a grueling hunt, he would know this too. As it is, however, he just looks at Gabe with wide eyes and nods seriously, right hand coming to rest lightly, protectively, across his stomach. “I’ll be a good dad,” he promises quietly.

“Of course you will, kiddo.” Gabe snaps his finger and appears sitting next to Dean on the bed, taking the opportunity to brush his fingers across Dean’s forehead yet _again_ , fucking Winchesters, as Dean’s soul is once again winding around Sam’s. 

And now he’s done dealing with all this family drama. One more snap of his fingers and Dean slumps against him sound asleep. A thud across the room shows Sam crumpled over the chair, equally unconscious. 

Gabe debates with himself, but in the end he gives in and lays Sam on the bed next to Dean instead of tying him to the chair to sleep it off. 

How’s that for emotional growth?

~*~*~

The thing is, if Sam hadn’t woken up in bed cuddling his brother, the thought would never have entered his mind.

Or so he tells himself. 

But when he wakes up on a questionably comfortable mattress with his arms wrapped firmly around someone breathing warm and damp against his neck, legs intertwined under the thin blanket, Sam doesn’t think of Jess. Not once. He thinks _yes_ and home and DeanDeanDean and wakes up happier than he can remember waking up in far too long. 

And Dean, fuck, Dean is beautiful and here and wrapped around Sam with his face right up close so Dean’s nose is pressed against Sam’s cheek. It’s how they’ve slept their entire lives, barring the weird times Dad would spring for a place with three beds, and the uncomfortable teenage years when they would wake up with sticky shorts or erections rubbing gently together, and kind of watch each other until they realized they were still rubbing off against each other and not moving away, which was usually enough to bring one of them to orgasm. And one of them orgasming always, always induced the other. 

That usually led to a morning of awkward blushes and training out of sync until Dad yelled at them and made them run it out, concluding with Dean muttering about not trusting Baby in this neighborhood and spending the night in the Impala. But the next night he’d be back in bed with Sam, and if they held each other a little too close, if they drifted into a cuddle without the excuse of already being asleep, if their breath maybe hitched or their muscles trembled, well. They were experts at just not talking about it. 

Sam unclenches one arm from around Dean and reaches down to grab his cell phone out of his pocket. It’s digging uncomfortably into his hip, pressed down by Dean’s leg, and Sam would sooner move the phone than Dean’s comforting weight. 

He has eighteen missed calls, six text messages, eight voicemails, and according to the display it is Tuesday, June twenty-first, two minutes after midnight. 

How the hell had he slept so long? 

Gabe. 

That bastard had done something to him and Dean. 

His memories of Sunday are hazy. He was starving and shaking with exhaustion and not thinking quite clearly by the time he pulled up at the motel Dean told him about. His hands were shaking too badly to pick the lock, and he’d had to bang on the door for almost five minutes before Dean opened it looking drugged and rumpled and _unarmed_ , which was so out of character for his brother that it pissed Sam off even more. 

There was shouting, mostly by Sam. He remembers Dean saying, “Sammy,” in a shocked, hopeful tone, ignoring his brother in favor of drawing out the devil’s trap Bobby had emailed him a picture of and warding the room -- SERIOUSLY, DEAN, BROKEN SALT LINES ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! -- and then he was holding his brother with one arm and frantically searching for Dean’s duffel with some half-baked plan to pack his brother up and get the hell out before whatever being had fixated on his brother decided to return. 

Then Gabe was in front of them, just _appearing_ out of nowhere, and Sam wanted Gabe to die. But bullets and the knife his dad gave him for his tenth birthday did nothing. He broke through the devil’s trap with a snap of his fingers and Dean’s eyes went out of focus and Sam’s head started to hurt. Something hot and violent bubbled in his blood when he thought of Gabe on the bed next to Dean. Gabe and Dean. Gabe _touching_ Dean. 

And he’s actually kind of grateful that he lost consciousness just then, because he really doesn’t know what he would have done when that much hatred came spilling out of him.

Only now it’s the solstice, Dean’s wedding day, and that. No. That just can’t happen. 

“Dean,” Sam whispers, bringing one hand up to stroke the side of Dean’s face. “Dean wake up.”

The fact that Dean doesn’t instantly become alert worries him. John Winchester’s style of parenting included learning to wake up to every noise, every slight disturbance in the environment. Keep your face serene and muscles lax in case the intruder is standing over you, but lack of instantaneous alertness always resulted in pain. Which is part of the reason it’s taken Sam almost a year to muster up the nerve to consider living with someone other than Dean.

Which, no. No thinking about Jess right now. Because when he does this, and as soon as Dean lets him he’s going to, there will be no more Jess in his life. There can’t be. And that stings, makes him feel slightly sick that someone else will be gifted with her smile and laugh and kisses, but the thought of him without Dean is exponentially worse and makes him feel like he can’t breathe. 

“Dean,” he whispers again, feeling the rough stubble on Dean’s jaw tickling his palm. “Dean, wake up.” He kisses him gently, just brushing their lips together, and Dean makes a contented humming noise and slowly opens his eyes. 

They’re both disgusting. Sam has been wearing the same clothes since Friday and has no clue when Dean last showered. Neither one of them have brushed their teeth in days. And it’s still nothing worse than what they’ve already lived through before. Like when Sam was fifteen and they stayed in that hunting shack with no electricity or running water for two weeks. That was a rank summer. So waking up sweaty and filthy and tangled up in each other? No big deal. 

But waking up fully prepared to throw normal out the window in order to indelibly stake his claim upon his brother? Yeah, that’s a big fucking deal. 

“Dean,” he whispers again, bending down to brush their mouths together again. “Dean, let me. Say yes. Because I can’t stand, you, no. Mine.” 

Funny that he’s the one who likes to talk and all the words are fleeing his mind. Frustrated, he presses their foreheads together and breathes against Dean’s face. Which, admittedly, is really fucking gross, but Dean looks more alert now and is breathing Sam in like he’s starving for him. “Have my baby, not Gabe’s.”

“Sam...” Dean trails off, starting to look around the room like he’s fully grasping his situation for the first time. Which he may very well be, considering how out of it he’s seemed. 

“We can’t just run away.” Now that he’s had some sleep and has Dean in his arms, logic is starting to come back to Sam in small doses. “He popped in past the salt lines and the wards and the devil’s trap, Dean. He’s done something to be able to get to you, and we still don’t know what he is. If we run, he’ll just follow and, and, Dean, what if he takes you away from me?”

Sam wants to cry, can feel the tears building in his chest and making his nose itch. And Dean is coming back to himself faster, cups his hand around Sam’s jaw and pulls him closer, instinctively wanting to comfort and protect and shield Sam from anything that makes him sad. “Nobody is taking me from you, Sammy,” he says fiercely, tightening his fingers until Sam is forced to look his brother in the eye. “You hear me?”

And Sam does, he _does_ , but, “he got you ready, Dean. You swallowed the potion. What if he takes you and gets you pregnant?” Dean tenses, and Sam really starts to wonder exactly how much of the last week his brother remembers. “So let me,” he begs, using the wheedling voice that Dean has never been able to resist. “And then he won’t be able to touch you. You’ll be _mine_.”

Wow, yeah. He’s pretty sure that if Dean decides to say no to him it’ll be right now, because he sounds possessive and demanding and freakishly unbalanced like he wants to mark Dean as his for all eternity, which is so --

“Yeah, ok.”

\-- so something Dean is apparently on board with. 

“Yes?” Sam doesn’t wait for a response, just slides his hand around to the back of Dean’s neck and kisses him properly, full on the mouth like every guilty fantasy he’s suppressed since his teenage years. “Mine?”

“Always been yours, Sammy.” And that’s _Sam’s_ voice coming out of Dean’s mouth, the one that is tender and loving and soft in the only way Dean ever allows himself to be. And Gabe can just go fuck himself with a hanger. That supernatural asshole is _never_ getting Dean to talk to him or about him in that tone of voice again. “Want you to be mine, too.”

The consent is mildly dubious considering Dean is still working off the effects of whatever Gabe did to his head, but it’s consent enough for Sam. “Yes,” he breathes out, planting frantic kisses over Dean’s jaw and neck, eye, hair, ear, shoulder, anywhere he can reach while simultaneously trying to rip Dean’s shirt off. “Yours,” he agrees, pulling back when Dean starts to help get himself naked, just enough to pull his own shirt off and start stripping off his jeans. “All yours.”

Halfway down his thighs is good enough for his jeans, because Dean has wiggled out of his boxers and reached for Sam and Dean is his, all his, naked and warm and willing and letting Sam keep him for forever. 

There’s lube in the nightstand drawer, and Sam doesn’t know if it’s Dean’s lube or something Gabe supplied for the ritual, and as much as he wants to ask, he needs to be buried inside Dean more. Needs to suck on his nipples and bite his hip bone and trace every scar with his tongue while he shoves two fingers up Dean’s ass. 

Shit, too rough, too much, and Sam lifts his head from sucking a bruise at Dean’s throat to check if he’s ok, but _of course_ he is. Dean’s back arches at the feeling and his teeth clench together, but fuck it all if the muscles in his stomach don’t clench and his dick doesn’t blurt out precome. Because they’re a little messed up in the head, the kind of guys to get horny after getting all sweaty fighting a werewolf, to find a perverse pleasure in fighting and scuffling and getting bruised and bloody. 

A little bit of pain makes the pleasure sweeter.

Sam just moans as he strokes his fingers in and out of Dean. Of _Dean_. His fingers are inside his brother, where, to the best of his knowledge, no guy but Dean has played with before, no one but _Sam_ gets to feel his warmth, the silky way Dean’s walls clench around him, gets to smell his arousal and lick his sweat and claim it all as his. 

He has to fight down the hysterical urge to make a _to boldly go where no man has gone before..._ joke, but figures he’ll save it for the first time Dean fucks him.

Holy shit. Can’t think of that right now or he’ll be scooping his come off Dean’s hip and feeding it up his ass with his fingers and tongue to make a baby.

Which, yeah. Maybe Sam should just stop thinking altogether. Or they’ll both be too spent before he gets a chance to fuck Dean, and Gabe really will end up the father. 

That thought makes him growl again, makes that thing inside of him that’s possessive and demanding positively _burn_. He fumbles his way into pouring more lube onto his hand, his stomach, the sheets, before biting Dean’s neck hard enough to draw blood and sticking three fingers up his ass. 

“Sam!” Dean’s shouts his name, but his hands are digging in, scratching into Sam’s sweaty back and pulling him closer as Sam sucks at his brothers blood like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. It kind of is, actually. Warm and thick and smelling like copper and something bright and dazzling that is purely Dean. Sam groans and considers himself permanently addicted. 

“Now, Sammy,” and Dean is begging again, legs shifting restlessly, right hand dragging up to fist in Sam’s hair and yank him into a kiss that’s more spit and blood and lips grinding together than anything else. “C’mon, baby boy. Do it.”

There’s something very, very wrong with hearing his brother call him baby boy and wanting nothing more than to fuck the words out of him again and again. Sam pulls his fingers free and grips Dean by both hips, dragging him up onto the pillows until they’re eye to eye. And Dean _likes_ that, gets wide eyed and breathless as Sam manhandles him. They are so going to explore this later. 

But now Sam is wiping his hand -- his hand, which has just been inside Dean, oh my god -- desperately against his stomach, scooping up the spilled lube and using his wet hand to coat his cock. And, Jesus, he’s so ready, so aroused, that it _hurts_. He wants to thrust against the pressure of his hand until he comes all over Dean, until Dean is sticky and used and smells like Sam and no one, be them human or supernatural, will ever doubt his claim.

Right. No thinking until later. 

“Mine,” Sam says as he slides inside Dean in one smooth thrust. And it hurts in the best way as Dean clenches around him, as he tries to move as gracefully as he can with his jeans trapping his thighs and throwing off his movements. 

“Oh, God.” Dean makes the best noise, this high-pitched whine that sounds like the pinnacle of pleasure-pain. “I can feel you, Sammy.” 

And Sam is desperate to hear that noise again and again and again, but Dean seems just as desperate to claim all of Sam, because he starts moving as much as he can while trapped between the mattress and Sam’s body, fucking himself down before he’s quite ready and making the sweetest little hurt noises that slowly morph into moans. 

It’s like they’re fighting, like even though Dean is the one taking it, Sam is the one being broken apart and remade. Like they’re sparring, and Dean is still teaching Sam that he knows all of his tells, all of his breaking points, and has no shame in flaunting that knowledge because he _knows_ Sam can take it. 

Only Sam doesn’t know if he can. Because sex is supposed to be lingering, teasing touches and kisses and maybe sometimes laughter. It’s taking the time to learn your partner, not literally three minutes of fighting and ready to explode. It’s not supposed to be filthy and rushed, and so good it feels like his soul is burning. 

But it is. His jeans are cutting into the flesh of his legs and Dean is wrapped all around him, hands in his hair and bruising his hips, scratching welts into his back and arms, legs clamped around hips, over an arm, until Sam has no idea how many arms and legs Dean has or what the hell is even going on. He’s dizzy and can’t breathe, and simply slides his arms under Dean and holds on, thrusts and thrusts as he buries his face in Dean’s neck and sucks on his blood as Dean makes a choked gurgle and tightens and tightens around him and, shit, he really can’t breathe, but that’s ok because he’s coming. 

Every muscle in his body goes rigid and his vision goes white, or maybe that’s the glow coming from Dean’s stomach. Whatever. 

It takes some time before he comes back to himself, and even then everything feels hazy and slightly out of focus. Bad time to think about Jess, but shit, he’s going to have to call her. And he hates to be that guy, but there’s no way he can go back to Stanford after this. Stanford is sunshine and clean cut kids and education. Dean would hate it there, and Sam’s ready to admit that he pretty much hates it everywhere Dean isn’t. 

And he doesn’t want to hunt, yeah, but if Dean is pregnant then he _can’t_ hunt, and, hey, in the next couple months they’ll be together, where no supernatural being can try to come between them, figuring this out. But, oh shit, what are they going to tell Bobby? Or Dad? 

He feels cold when his dick slides out of Dean. And lonely, which is ridiculous, since Dean is wrapped all around him, clinging and trembling and, yeah, showering is something they have to do at some point soon. But not now. Because Dean feels the separation, too, and makes this noise that is almost silent but hurts Sam just the same. 

So they cling together and drift off just like that, filthy and gross and they’re going to be itching like hell when they wake up but for now it’s perfect. 

And then Dean is poking him in the arm, grinning. “Dude, Asia,” he says happily. And sure enough, _The Heat Of The Moment_ is blaring from the alarm, and Sam tries to glare at it, but Dean is happy and naked and focused exclusively on him which is how it should be always and forever. 

Now that he’s thinking again, Sam decides he just doesn't care how fucked up he is. 

“We need a shower, man.” Dean looks so happy as he strokes his hand along Sam’s arm, like he’s memorizing him, convincing himself Sam is here and his and not leaving again. It hurts something inside of Sam, that hint of vulnerability. 

“I love you,” he murmurs, nuzzling into Dean’s neck and kissing his bite mark. Specks of dried blood linger on his lips as he mouths the words over and over against Dean’s neck, and he licks his lips, wondering if he can get away with biting Dean and reclaiming him all over again.

With the way Dean is looking at him, big green eyes devoted in a way Gabe never could make him look, he’s pretty sure he can. But Dean just slides a hand around Sam’s neck and tugs on his hair to bring him closer for a quick, surprisingly chaste kiss. “Dude, I’m starving,” he says with a laugh. “After our shower, I want bacon.”

And then he kisses Sam again, deeper, and again, sliding his tongue into Sam’s mouth, until every breath feels shared and every kiss feels like a brand.

That works just fine for Sam.

~*~*~

It’s not the fact that they’re clealy post-coital that shocks him. They might be brothers, but the way their souls cling to each other without the weight of extra time and death and Lillith’s contract on Dean’s soul at all? This seems like nothing more than logical progression to Gabriel. Sex between brothers? Because, yeah, incest and all, but he once had sex with a horse. So.

He casts no stones. 

But the glow emanating from Dean’s stomach? That is shocking. Because Gabe _didn’t_ give Dean anything to induce body changes or impregnation. And while angels and Gods and creatures can mate and reproduce, only the female humans can control population unless God says otherwise. 

So did his Father decide to knock Dean up? Or has he finally consumed too many sweets, indulged too often in pleasures of the flesh, and God was like, haha, jokes on you, buddy! I created man and woman and then let a serpent into the garden; I’m the original trickster!

Which, yeah, not really Dad’s style. But he did once flood the world and has yet to destroy population despite the way pop culture is trending, so who knows. 

He registers Fate’s presence waiting in the parking lot, and for the first time feels genuine unease about the validity of his plan. Because time travel is tricky, and while he may have made -- a baby! Holy shit, he helped create a baby! -- the Winchester bond stronger and paid Sam back for the emotional trauma of watching his brother repeatedly die by saving Jessica’s life... if Fate is here to take the baby, it will all be for nothing. 

Because you can’t give men like Sam and Dean everything they want, family and each other and the chance of an unconventional happy ending, and then just take it away with no provocation. They don’t react well to situations like that. One of them will do something stupidly dramatic, like kill themselves or get themselves killed, and the other will either follow right behind or sell their soul to bring the other back to life. And then they will be right back where they started, on the cusp of an apocalypse with Gabe’s family drooling for a Righteous Man to mould and train and use to destroy civilization, and Sam maybe becoming the ruler of Hell.

Does no one appreciate how hard it is to be a trickster in such a modern society? 

Just to be onry he snaps his fingers and turns the alarm on. It pisses him off that _The Heat Of The Moment_ doesn’t make Sam flinch anymore. Sam deserves it, now, for creating a baby with his brother and forcing Gabe to deal with Fate. 

“Atropos! Baby! How you doin’?”

She’s standing next to the Impala, hair perfectly brushed and smoothed down, suit crisp, leather-bound book of names and her deadly golden pen tucked under her right arm. She’s also frowning at Gabriel. So, you know, business as usual. 

“The baby should not exist,” she says crisply by way of greeting. “And thanks to your timely intervention, I will be collecting souls I should have already checked off and sent to the reapers. Not to mention the souls I will _not_ be crossing off, and the new names on my list. I dislike variation of routine, Gabriel.” Atropos tilts her head and stares Gabe down over the rim of her glasses. For such a petite woman, she’s mildly terrifying. 

“Yeah, well, variety is the spice of life, cookie.” Gabe gives her a smarmy grin and snaps his fingers, offering her a small yellow candy. “Lemon drop?” Because, shit, he really doesn’t know if he’ll be able to take her out if she goes after the baby, and offering lemon drops always seemed to work for Dumbledore. 

Atropos’ lip curls in disdain. “Thank you, no. And I will not be taking the child, because,” and here her mouth purses, like she actually has been sucking on the sour candy, “I have a message for you.”

“Yeah?” He doesn’t move away from his position in front of the door. No matter what Sam said regarding broken salt lines, Gabe warded the room against monsters and angels before sticking Dean there to cool his heels. Nobody can pop in on the boys except for him. If Fate wants into the room, she’ll have to go through the door. 

“Yes,” she agrees primly. “Because you are precious in my eyes, and honored, and I love you, I give men in return for you, peoples in exchange for your life. Fear not, for I am with you.”

And now Gabriel is really floored. “Dad sent you here to quote Isaiah to me?”

“Just so.” Atropos looks smug now, absently stroking her book of names. Never a good sign. “And also Romans. More than that, we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.”

So. Absentee Father, not quite as absent as Gabriel presumed.

And Gabriel’s split from Heaven has been noted and he has been missed, but God still loves him.

“Right.” This feeling swelling up inside of him makes him want to cry. It’s painful and bright and warm and cold and hurts in the best possible ways. He hasn’t felt like this since he stood before Mary and told her God had chosen her to bear His son, and her tears washed his feet like a benediction. 

“Which means,” and now Atropos sounds downright cheerful, but Gabe is too thrown to really do anything about it, “that God is assigning you to the Winchesters and their growing brood, in exchange for sending Uriel and Raphael after Azazel.” She sends a poisonous look towards the curtain-covered window. “Have fun with that.”

Right. The baby stays. That’s... good. And also is apparently going to be his to protect. Excellent. This is what happens when the blood of Cain and Abel mix and procreate. 

“Wait.” Gabe snaps out of his funk, pushing the warm feeling aside so he can prioritize. “Growing brood?”

Now Atropos smiles outright. It’s small and sweet and sends chills down his spine. "Godspeed, Gabriel,” she says sweetly, and then she’s gone and Gabe is alone in the parking lot. 

Well, shit.

~*~*~

“You can’t have him,” Sam snarls, moving to half-shield Dean with his body. His efforts are for naught, however, since Dean has snapped fully out of his angel-induced mindfuck and successfully had Sam pinned to the bed and shielded by _his_ body weight before Sam even registered Gabe’s presence. “Dean! Stop it! I won’t let him take you!”

“I won’t let him take me either, Sammy,” Dean says firmly, muscles tensed as he stares fixedly into Gabe’s eyes. He looks fierce and in-control, but Gabe can read minds and knows that Dean is trying really, really hard not to think about how much he likes having Sam underneath him and how he begged to be fucked by his brother last night. 

“Yeah, relax, chuckleheads.” Gabe flops down into the chair across the room and pouts. “Do you know how much _work_ you two are? I’ve never seen two people so erotically codependent.” He snaps up a bag of cookies and starts munching as he glares at the ceiling, fully content to smother his feelings with sweets. 

“What are you?” Dean’s clearly refusing to let himself be distracted by Sam’s nakedness or the fact that he is unarmed and facing off a supernatural being that kept him largely unconscious and confused for the better part of a week, after threatening to marry him and knock him up.

This is why Gabe has always liked Dean better than Sam. Dean understands that some things are better left ignored and not discussed in favor of eating, or taking out frustrations on killing evil sons of bitches. Simple. Sam likes to talk and work out problems and research. Lame. 

“I’m an Angel of the Lord,” Gabe says, vanishing his empty bag of cookies and producing a platter of bear claws fresh from the oven, all steaming and scented and happy. He politely ignores Sam’s snort of disdain and sends another platter of pastries and a glass of orange juice to Dean. Gotta take care of the baby, after all. “And also a trickster. I’m here to help you.”

“ _Help_ us?” Sam says in disbelief, finally managing to sit up. “And kidnapping my brother and trying to take him from me is your version of helping?” The sheet pools in his lap and Gabe has to concede that while Dean is prettier, Sam definitely has the better body. “I think we’re good without you, thanks.” Especially when he starts wrestling with Dean, trying to stop him from eating Gabe’s offerings. “Damn it, Dean, stop eating that!”

“Actually, Dean, keep eating that,” Gabe says cheerfully. Both men freeze, snapping back to attention. “And you may as well learn to eat what I produce, since I’ll be sticking around for the foreseeable future.”

On the dresser, Dean’s cell phone starts to ring. 

“That’s your dad,” Gabe says, unwrapping a bright red lollipop and giving it a happy lick. “One of you should answer and let him know he’s going to be a grandpa.”


End file.
